Mark, looked out of his office window, into the evening twilight. It was already six o’clock and he had had a very boring day. It was one of those rainy winter days with very little to do. He had already phoned his wife to let her know he was almost ready to go home. Sir Mark Wallaby was a very active, although chubby ginger-haired, middle-aged man, with keen eyes. His appearance was extremely pleasant and he was indeed a well respected man.
The museum was closing and he felt weary. He got up leaving his desk filled with all kinds of ornaments arranged in an extremely organized manner, a pencil case and a few papers in a basket. As he was leaving the room he took one last glance over his shoulder, and smiled, satisfied with the tidiness. As he was walking through the corridors he gazed at the paintings, his masterpieces; after all he was the curator, so naturally he had always felt as if they belonged to him. Glancing at the beauty and geniality of masters like Caravaggio, Monet, Botticelli or Cazánne among so many others, he was quite proud of his collection. The early evening had already imposed itself through the rounded skylight above, giving the impression of light raindrops falling down on him. Lost in his delightful promenade he came across a blank canvas.
Abruptly he stopped, turned around and stared at the void. There had been a painting hanging on that wall, that afternoon when he returned from his lunch appointment. It wasn’t a masterpiece, not even a known work of art. It was actually an obscure anonymous oil painting they had rescued from storage and that he affectionately named “The Kiss”. Who could possibly have done such a thing and why or how? He thought to himself astonished. In his incredulity, he didn’t realize he was speaking his own thoughts out loud, nor did he realize he was no longer alone. Mr. Leon the night caretaker had joined him and together they rushed back to the study to phone Scotland Yard. The mere idea of a robbery occurring there was absolutely appalling; he could already imagine the morning headlines.
The perpetrator had to be found, the police had to be informed at once, there wasn’t a minute to waste and with a little help from providence, this entire issue would be resolved swiftly. “Nonsense, old chap” an inner voice called out to him, “this is only the beginning. A lot will happen before criminal charges can be imposed on anybody”. Suddenly he felt old, so very old…
The museum was closing and he felt weary. He got up leaving his desk filled with all kinds of ornaments arranged in an extremely organized manner, a pencil case and a few papers in a basket. As he was leaving the room he took one last glance over his shoulder, and smiled, satisfied with the tidiness. As he was walking through the corridors he gazed at the paintings, his masterpieces; after all he was the curator, so naturally he had always felt as if they belonged to him. Glancing at the beauty and geniality of masters like Caravaggio, Monet, Botticelli or Cazánne among so many others, he was quite proud of his collection. The early evening had already imposed itself through the rounded skylight above, giving the impression of light raindrops falling down on him. Lost in his delightful promenade he came across a blank canvas.
Abruptly he stopped, turned around and stared at the void. There had been a painting hanging on that wall, that afternoon when he returned from his lunch appointment. It wasn’t a masterpiece, not even a known work of art. It was actually an obscure anonymous oil painting they had rescued from storage and that he affectionately named “The Kiss”. Who could possibly have done such a thing and why or how? He thought to himself astonished. In his incredulity, he didn’t realize he was speaking his own thoughts out loud, nor did he realize he was no longer alone. Mr. Leon the night caretaker had joined him and together they rushed back to the study to phone Scotland Yard. The mere idea of a robbery occurring there was absolutely appalling; he could already imagine the morning headlines.
The perpetrator had to be found, the police had to be informed at once, there wasn’t a minute to waste and with a little help from providence, this entire issue would be resolved swiftly. “Nonsense, old chap” an inner voice called out to him, “this is only the beginning. A lot will happen before criminal charges can be imposed on anybody”. Suddenly he felt old, so very old…
PS: The painting is a real work of art! I hope the painter is able to forgive me but I truly love this portrait.
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